


Darling, we need to talk about your hair

by Crowletto (between_spaces)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Loves Crowley's hair, Aziraphale does some real thinking, Bodyswap, Crowley Has Long Hair (Good Omens), Crowley's Hair (Good Omens), Episode: s01e06 The Very Last Day of the Rest of Their Lives, Freeform, Internal Monologue, Introspection, M/M, Miscommunication, Not kidding, Oblivious Aziraphale and Crowley (Good Omens), Podfic Welcome, Realisations, The Night At Crowley's Flat (Good Omens), Thoughtful Aziraphale, but seriously it's almost just Crowley's hair, hair fixation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-02
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-15 01:15:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29800725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/between_spaces/pseuds/Crowletto
Summary: "Aziraphale might have noticed Crowley's hair one or two times over the centuries. It's nothing to lose a good night of sleep about.But sometimes, an angel can't help but wonder..."
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 15
Kudos: 47





	Darling, we need to talk about your hair

**Author's Note:**

  * For [JoyAndOtherStories](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JoyAndOtherStories/gifts), [heavenlypears](https://archiveofourown.org/users/heavenlypears/gifts), [AgnusNutter22](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AgnusNutter22/gifts).



> Without the GREATEST cheerleaders in the world, I wouldn't have dared posting this. It's my first fic ever and the reaction of y'all has been absolutely overwhelmingly kind. Special thanks to @JoyandOtherStories, @AgnusNutter22 and Nicola Kaye, without those lovely betas this would've been a lot more bumpy. 
> 
> I'm also dedicating this to Dom (@ngkintensifies on Twitter) because they were the very first I got talking to in the fandom and I've never had such a lovely and kind welcome to any fandom *_* Never change your kindness, peeps! Hope you like it!

**41 A.D., Rome**

“Exuberant.” Aziraphale’s gaze rests on the carefully groomed head of cropped curls in front of him. In the tavern lights, they shimmer almost blood red. The waves and tips are too perfectly layered, locks framing the face of his companion like flawlessly-shaped laurel branches. Crowley is fooling nobody into thinking that this hair comes naturally to his corporation. The angel wonders if it requires a tad of demonic intervention in the morning to make it look like this. Maybe a manservant brings it into form. The thought of fingers stroking through crimson hair, fingers tousling rebellious locks into submission, is definitely not a thing to dwell on.

“Oh?” Crowley has shifted his attention away from the spectacle in the tavern and onto Aziraphale’s face. The ridiculous glasses the demon started wearing do nothing to conceal the serpent’s incredulous expression. He’s visibly puzzled and, maybe, a tad too intrigued for the angel’s liking.

“These extravagant festivities of the Romans,” Aziraphale adds quickly. The angel definitely has not been staring at anything but the going-ons inside the tavern. He picks up an oyster and brings it to his lips, slurping the meat out of the shell. While he finds the delicacies extremely delicious, he has not yet mastered the skill of eating them artfully.

In a corner, opposite the counter, a figure in a tunic is draped on a chaise-lounge being fed grapes, while two men caress their hands and feet. The angel inclines his head and turns away from the scene. “Exactly the kind of behaviour upstairs is trying their hardest not to encourage,” he sighs.

“There’s no harm in a little fun, angel.” Crowley’s left brow is arched and the joy in his eyes is outrageous. “I consider this an extremely successful evening, if I may say so myself.” The demon’s smile is easy, relaxed, as if the presence of an acquaintance is making him loose. And who is fooling whom in this scenario, anyhow? Crowley seems genuinely glad that Aziraphale stumbled into him. “But you could count this as a win, too, you know.” Crowley’s smile turns devious. He inclines his head and takes a sip of the drink in front of him, an empty shell joining the single other one on Crowley’s plate. “Which other angel could claim they’ve successfully tempted a demon? Takes great angelic interference, that.”

The angel chokes on an oyster. “I’ll never hear the end of this, will I?”

Crowley’s grin widens.

~*~

**537 A.D., Essex**

“Magnificent.” It slips out, as Aziraphale watches his adversary take off chainmail and helmet, a shock of fiery braids and loose strands cascading over the demon’s shoulder. Exactly how many souls, the angel ponders, must have fallen prey to this view? How many have renounced king and country and followed the black knight into battle? _Fomenting_. Aziraphale will be, well, not _damned_ exactly, but he’ll be loathed to admit that Crowley might just be extremely successful in his role. Aziraphale is aware that his side is not up to snuff at the moment. Truth be told, this whole century is a disaster, and the angel is miserable. His corporeal form is aching everywhere, he feels sweaty and his hair sticks to his temple like straw to a donkey. Crowley, however, radiates confidence and spite. Like a day knee-deep in muddy puddles and grime is _fun_. His figure is striking, even out here amidst horse excrement, battered tents and damp woods. It is utterly unfair. Why he’d ever even want to offer the angel a pact is beyond him. The demon’s side is winning, isn’t it?

Crowley frowns. “What are you talking about, angel?” The tone is light, but he looks slightly annoyed. Is he still holding onto the idea that the two of them should work together? Aziraphale sighs into his drink and sips his mead. Where was he? Ah, yes, this bloody fighting.

“How much the humans will endure, simply to fight for what they believe is right.” He does not want to look away. Crowley is the only thing worth looking at in a 20-mile radius.

“That’s not just a human trait, angel.” The demon lifts his shoulders and cracks his neck,a strand of hair falling over the crook of his collarbone. “Just Imagine: We could be in a tavern, right now. In front of a fire. Reminiscing a time when we were stupid enough to ride horses and fight losing battles in dark forests.”

Aziraphale frowns. “I’m not going to be your little renegade, demon,” he grumbles, and finishes his drink. Crowley sighs. “Back to fomenting it is.”

~*~

**1609, London**

“Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?” Aziraphale’s words make Crowley’s face perk up when he spots the angel walking over, but the look is immediately replaced by mistrust over the sentiment. Aziraphale still hasn’t gotten used to THE hair. He has waited centuries for a sight of that lovely, long hair to make a reappearance. Now it flows over his shoulders again, tenderly framing his slim features into an almost Madonna-esque portrait. But the curls are not half as endearing as the first time they’d met. A pity, if Crowley didn’t manage to pull this look off flawlessly, as well. “You’re not still associating with the bard, are you?”

Aziraphale slides onto a wooden bench opposite him and raises his hand to order a drink. “Why, yes, of course. He’s composed the most lovely poetry. Here.” The angel beams as he places the document in front of the demon. Crowley skims the poem, with Aziraphale studying his every move.

“It’s certainly better than his plays.” He concedes. “Love’n all that.”

The angel bristles. “You have absolutely no sense of sophistication for someone so…” Careful now. “…interested in human affairs.” Aziraphale concludes haughtily.

~*~

**1967, Soho, London**

“Radiant.” Aziraphale hates his mouth a little bit for always being miles ahead. Naturally, Crowley’s and his arrangement has been quite successful over the centuries. They have developed, if not a friendship, at least something akin to a very comfortable camaraderie. That doesn’t mean, however, that his brain is allowed to be tardy. But what is an angel to do when his head is slightly buzzing from too much champagne and a flashy mop of wonderful, luxurious red hair is just right there? This new, straight coiffure is just another temptation. He wonders how long he can thwart the desire to ruffle it. The angel sniggers. “I mean the way Soho has lit up over the years.”

He lets his gaze shift to the glowing shop windows surrounding them. They’re in a comfortable place right now, walking along Lexington Street in companionable silence. Dining at the Ritz had been a splendid idea. One of Crowley’s better ones. The angel is content enough to hum. “So you haven’t heard of the Rolling Stones but you know the sound of _Love me do_ ”.” Crowley states drily, a lopsided smile betraying his flat expression.

“Well, dear, it _is_ quite a catchy tune, don’t you think?”

The demon makes a non-committal sound. “Hm.”, he adds. “Very relatable, too. For humans.”

Aziraphale can’t help but mirror the soft expression on Crowley’s face. “Yes. That is very true.”

~*~

**2008, Soho, London**

“Gorgeous,“ the angel comments. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Crowley’s sunglasses have become much more opaque over the years, so this makes this new slip-up even more embarrassing. Aziraphale has no way of knowing or judging what the demon is thinking. It’s the 21st century, and the angel has resigned himself to the fact that he will admire Crowley’s hair whatever style he wears. This new appearance is just a recent highlight in a series of very glorious style decisions. ((With maybe the exception of their meeting in 1793, because, good Lord, whatever had the demon been thinking?)).

But the slender figure beside him just stretches languidly on the park bench and turns his head to a jogger passing them. “Never thought that _that_ is the type you’d go for, angel.”

Aziraphale fights an unwelcoming rush of heat creeping to his face. “That is most certainly NOT the type I’m _going for_.” If words had air quotes, they would slap Crowley across the face. “Angels don’t have a preference. I like humanity in general.”

Crowley emits an unimpressed sound that resembles air leaking from a thermos. “Not very angelic of you. With the world coming to an end and angels not caring a tad about God’s earthly creation.”

Aziraphale shifts uncomfortably. “We have already agreed to be Godparents, haven’t we? I am sure that we can sway…our sides in favour of humanity, when the time comes.” The demon smirks and the angel’s gaze follows Crowley’s index finger tugging a rebellious strand of hair behind his ear.

“Let’s hope everyone’s as agreeable as you,” Crowley taunts. If his voice doesn’t sound half as teasing as intended, Aziraphale is sure he imagines it.

~*~

**Sunday, Very First Day of the Rest of their Lives**

The demon is asleep. Aziraphale has never actually understood the concept, but at this moment, this odd habit works in his favour. He wonders, briefly, if his body will feel different, _after_. (If there is going to be an after, after tomorrow, that is). If not only because it has been inhabited by a demon, then because the angel’s corporation has gotten its first real dose of sleep in what, six-thousand years?

He is positioned in front of Crowley’s body-sized mirror. It is an imposing thing, dominating most of the room Crowley has _created_ for his guest and he still does not understand why. It’s not like he needed a guest room. He does not sleep. _For privacy reasons_ , the demon had said. As though they hadn’t just swapped bodies and let each other invade the most private thing a higher being such as themselves could claim their own. Like Crowley wasn’t the most compelling thing in the universe next to Jupiter. The very fact that he could think of recuperation at a time like this seems preposterous.

Aziraphale studies himself in the mirror. Crowley’s eyes stare back. The angel slowly lifts his hands and rubs the back of his neck, feeling the stubble of re-growing hair against his fingertips. His reflection is offensively beautiful. Loud. Flamboyant. Intrusive in a way only the demon can look, simply by being in the same room. The hair is styled into submission, a very practical choice. With gel and product and whatever Crowley nowadays insists on using instead of just miracling it into place. It looks gorgeous, yes, but sometimes, the angel misses the curls.

_2016, now, that had been a good year. Hair at shoulder length, the odd braid thrown in for style, and definitely some curvy strands to admire. “Do you realise you do that out loud, angel?” Crowley had asked, when he had finally caught on. “I mean, I don’t mind. Go on.” It hadn’t been painfully awkward, like Aziraphale had feared. But it hadn’t been comfortable, either._

_“Oh you!” The angel had managed to utter. “Don’t even pretend you don’t do it on purpose. I have heard you mock hell before, for calling you flashy.” Crowley’s smile had shown teeth. “Flash bastard were my exact words. High compliment from the likes of them, if you ask me.” And, well, that had been that._

The curls! A small smile crosses Aziraphale’s lips and the angel is taken aback by the mischievous expression it draws on his face. So this expression counts as joyful excitement in Crowley’s books. Interesting. With a flick of his fingers, the reflection in the mirror changes, hair growing longer, strands intertwining and forming the most luxurious waves and curls.

 _Oh_.

Frankly, Aziraphale has underestimated what effect this particular hair has on him. What it represents. The last time he’s seen it on the demon was when the angel still didn’t have a concept of what exactly? Of intimacy? Of closeness? An idea of what humans call lust? This cannot be that, can it? He catches a long, red lock, twirls it, and slowly runs a finger along it, lets it go. He could write sonnets about this hair. In fact, the angel is pretty sure that some humans might have done exactly that. And who could blame them? Aziraphale has never understood the demon's need to go with the times. While he had always attributed Crowley’s corporeal changes to vanity, he has also suspected that it is part of his job description. Not to be flashy, but to be appealing to humans. A captivating influence in every decade. Tempt the humans around you into devoting themselves to you. Make them desire you, make them lose themselves for you.

Aziraphale isn’t lost, is he? This body, this corporation is simply used to things he in his usual body does not generally feel. It’s wired into the blueprint of Crowley’s body. Desire. It’s not like Aziraphale has done something like this before. But then again, Crowley has not looked like that in a long while.

In the mirror, Crowley’s reflection lifts his hands and slowly caresses his temples, pushing into the full hair to tenderly graze his scalp. The angel shudders and the image in front of him lets his eyes fall shut. Fingers tug and stroke and feel.

“Ngh.” Aziraphale’s eyes fall open. He had not meant to make that sound. The angel pauses in his movements and lets his arms fall to his sides. The next minute, he fights down the racing heartbeat that has begun to speed up within seconds after the realisation of what this sound means.

The trouble, the angel realises, staring into nothingness until he has calmed down enough to remember how breathing works. The trouble is, that this is not simply a temptation to which he has yielded. The issue is that this is stronger than lust. And isn’t that just a lovely realisation for 3 am at night when stuck in an unfamiliar body?

Aziraphale bites his lip, then turns away from the mirror. Every century, every hairstyle, every lock and curl and mop and strand holds memories. Of Crowley’s smile, Crowley’s wit, Crowley’s heart. Gestures, favours, shared activities. Banter, wishes, laughter, desire. Friendship and trust. Steadiness and comfort. The angel does not know when he has stopped regarding the demon as handsome and started to refer to him as beautiful in his mind. The hair isn’t merely a thing that has changed with every decade of human history. It is a reminiscence of their shared past, a memorabilia of their growing fondness.

So, that’s a _thing_. Aziraphale takes a moment to steady himself. His breathing is slowing down; he does not feel like he's drowning anymore. Somewhere in his chest, the feeling of panic is replaced by something small, but warm and growing. This closeness they’ve shared for so long, the idea of them. The feeling of love has accompanied their shared experiences and actions towards one another for a while. The angel isn’t quite sure why he has only realised it now.

Tomorrow is the first day of the rest of their lives and he does not know what will come after or whether they will survive the day. He is not prepared to simply let this rest. So the angel makes an executive decision.

Hands sweaty, heart beating jerkily in his chest, the angel makes his way to Crowley’s bedroom. The corresponding, slightly drowsy response from inside is still ongoing when Aziraphale opens the door.

“My dear, I think it is high time that we talk about your hair.”


End file.
